For What It's Worth
by axisofsymmetry
Summary: When Dean's wallet gets stolen he chases down the thief and realized the man took it out of desperation. He invites Castiel to have a meal with him, and they end up back at his place, eating in front of the TV. But the night doesn't end there...


**Hey, all. Been a while. I took this prompt yesterday and decided I might as well post it here as well as tumblr so here I am. The original prompt was that Cas robs Dean and they make a deal: they have sex and Dean doesn't turn him in. I obviously changed it, but wanted the original prompt here anyway, so thanks to Madi (currently squidstiel on tumblr well see how long that url sticks) for the prompt that kept me un-bored.**

**Pairing: **Dean/Cas  
**Words: **~1850  
**Content and warnings: **AU where Cas is human and Dean is probably not a hunter; M/M sex; homelessness and stereotyped references to it; thievery; casual use of "stupid" once; swearing. If I missed something let me know.

**Okay so without further ado here it is in all its unedited glory**

* * *

**For What It's Worth**

The guy's hard to follow, even though this late at night there's not a huge crowd for him to get lost in. But he's lithe, and he's quick, and it takes a good effort on Dean's part—Dean, broad-shouldered and heavy-set and not a runner—to keep up. He spots the guy sliding into a dark alley and follows, managing to tackle him to the ground about halfway down, footsteps still echoing off the high walls of the buildings on either side.

He gives Dean a shit-eating grin from below him. "Alright, you caught me," he pants (not as hard as Dean, but Dean's grateful to know that it tired the thief out, too—he can feel the man's chest heaving) and holds up both hands, Dean's wallet firmly clutched in his left.

Dean grabs it back, giving the guy an ugly snarl. "I should turn you in. You fucking—"

"No, no!" The man says, all confidence gone, to be replaced by doe eyes and worry at the corners of his mouth. "Please," he adds.

"Why shouldn't I? You stole my wallet, ran _away_ with it. My brother's a cop; he could put you away for a good five years at least."

The guy definitely looks worried now. "Please. I was gonna stick it in a mailbox in the morning. I just—I need money. I need to eat."

Dean's loath to believe him. Except. His ribs are clearly visible beneath his thin t-shirt. He's pale, not in a natural way, but in a sickly way. His eyes are a bit sunken, skin surrounding them almost purple. Leather jacket, looks to be about Dean's age, worn and torn and the lining frayed to being almost nonexistent. He doesn't look like a normal street walker, that's for sure. He doesn't look like a drinker or a drug user or someone who's used to living outdoors. He just looks like a guy with no luck.

And Dean _feels_ for him; of course he does. He lived that. When he was a kid and his dad would leave him and Sam in some motel room to fend for themselves, for _weeks_ at a time, for so long that they ran out of money and had to sleep in churches and bus stations. He knows that pang of hunger, that desperation.

"Fine," he says softly, standing up so that he's no longer crushing the other man. "Fine. I won't turn you in. But you have to do something for me."

"Anything," the man breathes, hope filling his eyes.

"You have to let me buy you a meal."

* * *

"Castiel," he says, still unused to the name, irritated beyond belief. "If you don't choose what you want in ten seconds, I'm gonna take you to my house and you're gonna have to settle for whatever I decide to have for dinner."

"It's after ten," Castiel says, knees up to his chest. Dean ignores his feet on the upholstery. Leather is easy to clean, he tells himself.

"I worked late," he grunts in reply. Waits five more seconds. "Well?"

"I dunno."

Dean rolls his eyes and turns on the car. "My house, then."

* * *

He ends up making linguine and a half-assed wine sauce, but it's food. He piles it into two bowls and brings it out to the living room, where Castiel is _still_ deciding what to watch on Netflix. Most indecisive guy ever.

"God's sake, you eat, and _I'll _find something." He grabs the remote from Castiel, replacing it with a hearty bowl of noodles, and browses for all of a minute before playing a random episode of Star Trek.

"Oh, Star Trek," Castiel notes. "I used to watch this all the time." There's sauce on the corner of his mouth, and Dean's captivated by it for a couple seconds before a pink tongue flicks out and it's gone.

Dean clears his throat, takes a swig of beer, and sits back on his couch, focusing his attention on the screen and his food.

* * *

They watch three episodes, and by that time it's way too late to do anything else. The world's settled into a silence that Dean can _feel_, and he doesn't want to break it by even _moving_. Not that he could; Castiel's head is on his shoulder, and his even breathing leaves Dean to believe he's asleep. So he picks up the remote and exits the screen before another episode can play.

"I was watching that," Castiel murmurs.

"Thought you were asleep," Dean whispers.

"Half."

Dean doesn't know how to respond to that.

"Why're you doing this?" Castiel asks after a minute.

"Turning off Netflix? Because it's late."

"You know that's not what I mean." And he does.

He sighs. "I dunno. I've been in your position. If someone had helped me when I needed it, maybe I wouldn't have turned out so fucked up."

"You're not fucked up."

"You don't know me."

Castiel turns his head a little, sleepy eyes staring up into Dean's. "No. But I think I can tell what kind of person you are. Everyone's a little fucked up, right? You turned out okay, in the end."

"Cas..." Dean's enraptured by Castiel's gaze, by his pink lips and his scruffy face, his stupid windblown hair and his AC/DC t-shirt and his chin grinding against Dean's shoulder and maybe he moves first, maybe Castiel does, but in moments their lips are pressed together and Castiel's arms are around his neck and they're spread out on the couch, grinding gently against each other, Dean's hands finding each of Castiel's vertebrae, and they're sighing into each other's mouths and all he can think is, _worth it_.

"Bed," he murmurs, pushing Castiel away—only to reattach his lips to the other man's when they're both standing. They strip clothes as they go, Dean pushing Castiel's pants halfway down his thighs and Castiel kicking them the rest of the way off, Castiel unbuttoning Dean's shirt and tearing it off, until they fall onto the bed, mostly naked, Castiel crawling on top of Dean and straddling his waist, a stark difference to their first meeting only a few hours ago.

Dean's hands glide up Castiel's thin waist, and he idly wonders what the man would look like if he ate regularly. But the thought dissipates as soon as it materializes, and one hand continues its way upward, up his chest, up his neck, to his jaw. "Cas," he murmurs.

Castiel leans down and presses a gentle kiss to Dean's neck, the addition of stubble sending a shiver down Dean's spine. He arches up with a moan, his hard cock rubbing against Castiel's, and his moan doubles up on itself, coming out louder.

Castiel only chuckles before he maneuvers around carefully, hands and arms moving halfway down their bodies, until they're both divested of underwear. He groans at the first contact of skin, and again a shiver goes down Dean's spine, down to his toes.

"Fuck," he mumbles, reaching out to his side with his right arm, because _lube_, that's a thing they _need_, but he's so high on pleasure he gives up after mere seconds—and it's so lucky that Castiel's a little more composed than him, because he _understands_, and he reaches out in the same direction, grabs the bottle that's just laying innocuously on the bedside table, and places it into Dean's open hand with an encouraging smile.

Dean's fingers close around the bottle—God, it's almost empty; he's gonna need more soon—and with practiced ease he flicks open the top with a thumb, drips a little bit of liquid onto the fingers of his opposite hand, spreads it around, slides first one hand, then the other, around Castiel's back, down his backside, until he finds what he's looking for. Castiel lets out a small gasp, fingers curling on Dean's chest, before he moans lowly as Dean enters him with a single finger, sliding it all the way in in one go. He strokes his finger gently inside of Castiel, until the other man's nails are pressing into his skin, and pulls out, pressing in again with two fingers, repeating the same smooth stroking motion.

Castiel presses back against him, eyes locked with Dean's, and this time he's clenching his fists before Dean adds a third finger, only stroking a handful of times, because Castiel's getting uncontrollable, moaning and whimpering and whining and throwing his head back, and his fingers are twisting in Dean's chest hairs, and Dean can't argue with that. He removes his hands; Castiel grinds against him like a cat. He squeezes more lube onto his fingers, spreading it onto his own cock and tossing the bottle to the side, wiping his hands on the sheets (they're due for a cleaning anyway).

"Condom?" Castiel barely manages. Dean only shakes his head. "Clean?" Dean nods. "Okay." He reaches back, slender fingers on Dean's cock, guiding it until he gets it just in place, and presses down.

Dean lets out a rough groan, hands sliding up Castiel's thighs and gripping at the thick muscles there, feeling them flex and relax with his movements. In what seems like no time at all, he's completely inside Castiel, who is minutely moving back and forth, getting just the barest bit of friction.

"Cas," Dean says again. "Cas." It's all he can say, all he can _think_, just _Cas, Cas, Cas_.

Castiel presses a gentle kiss to his lips before he _really_ starts to move, legs working, his movements smooth and steady—but Dean knows he has much less control than it seems; his hands are shaking, fingers twisting and gripping at Dean's chest. Dean lifts his hips every time Castiel presses down, creating a rhythm between them in not only movements, but breaths, heartbeats, sighs of pleasure.

Dean's hands are sliding all over Castiel's body, callouses running across soft skin and soft skin and soft skin. And Castiel, he has one hand in Dean's hair, he's bent over so that his lips have constant contact with Dean's neck, his other hand on Dean's forearm, following his movements as Dean's fingers trace paths down Castiel's back.

"I'm gonna," Dean manages, and Castiel nods—his cock is trapped between their bodies, getting friction against Dean's stomach, but that doesn't stop Dean from sliding a hand between them, placing it over Castiel's cock to give him double the friction. Castiel _keens_ like a fucking _angel_ or something before he comes between them, clenching around Dean.

Dean lets go, thrusting hard a handful more times before he reaches orgasm, moaning Castiel's name through it, losing all thought for a few seconds.

He feels Castiel's smile against his neck, and then gentle kisses that trail up to his lips, until they're exchanging sweet kisses and smiling through it and then giggling like children. Castiel rolls off to the side and cuddles up close to Dean, who wraps an arm automatically around him, a smile still on his face.

"Stay the night," Dean murmurs. _Stay forever_, he thinks.

"I was planning on it," Castiel responds. Dean wonders if it's a response to his thoughts. He turns to Castiel, and they lock eyes.

Castiel looks so peaceful, so content and relaxed.

Dean thinks again,

_Worth it_.


End file.
